Page 34 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

She was right. Around the next bend, the sound of falling water grew louder. The trail opened into a grove where someone—forest service, probably—had placed benches near a viewing area. A small waterfall tumbled into a crystal pool, spray catching sunlight in tiny rainbows.

"It's perfect," she breathed. "Like a fairy tale."

I'd scouted this spot online, but the photos hadn't done it justice. Wildflowers grew thick here, taking advantage of the water. Butterflies were everywhere—orange monarchs, yellow swallowtails, tiny blues she'd mentioned, all dancing from flower to flower in an aerial ballet.

She threw her arms around my waist, pressed her face into my chest. "It's perfect. You're perfect. This whole day is perfect."

I held her close, breathing in her shampoo and happiness. "Nothing's too good for my girl."

A monarch chose that moment to land on her shoulder, wings slowly opening and closing. She froze, barely breathing, eyes wide with wonder.

"Magic," she whispered. "Daddy made magic."

Not magic. Just a man who'd do anything to see his baby girl smile. But if she wanted to believe in magic, surrounded by butterflies and waterfalls and endless possibility, who was I to argue?

The butterfly lifted off, joining its fellows in their dance. Kiara watched it go with the kind of pure joy that made everything—the planning, the early morning, the risk of being away from the club during high alert—worth it.

"Come on, baby girl." I picked up the basket again. "Let's find a picnic spot."

The checkered blanket unfurled across the grass with a snap, red and white squares bright against the green.

I'd picked this clearing for the view—wildflowers on three sides, the small waterfall providing background music, enough shade from the pines to keep us comfortable.

Perfect tactical positioning, if your mission involved butterfly sandwiches and making your girl smile.

"Can I help?" Kiara hovered at the blanket's edge, hands clasped behind her back like she was afraid to disturb my setup.

"No chance. Sit." I patted the center of the blanket. "Let Daddy handle everything today."

She folded down gracefully, dress spreading around her like flower petals. The yellow fabric caught the filtered sunlight, making her glow. Or maybe that was just her happiness, radiating out in waves I could almost touch.

I set the basket beside her, making a production of opening the latches. "Now, let's see what we have here . . ."

Her eyes tracked my every movement as I pulled out containers. The juice boxes first—apple and fruit punch—which made her bounce slightly. Then the string cheese, still cold from the ice pack. The white bakery box tied with ribbon got a tiny gasp.

"Is that . . . ?"

"Patience, baby girl." I saved that for last, pulling out the wrapped sandwiches instead. "Close your eyes."

She obeyed immediately, hands folded in her lap, face tilted up with trust that gutted me every time. I unwrapped one sandwich carefully, placing it on the small paper plate I'd packed.

"Okay, open."

Her eyes flew open, then widened impossibly. "Butterflies! You made butterfly sandwiches!"

Before I could blink, she had her phone out, angling for the perfect photo. Then she froze, looking guilty. "Is it okay that I—"

I cut her off with a kiss, quick but firm. "Today is about you enjoying everything, baby girl. No guilt, no worry."

"They're too pretty to eat." She picked up one carefully, examining it from all angles. "You even got the wings symmetrical. How long did this take?"

"Not long." Lie. Those fucking butterfly cookie cutters were designed by someone with tiny hands who'd never tried to cut sandwiches at five in the morning. "Try one."

She bit into a wing delicately, then moaned in a way that went straight to my cock. "Peanut butter and strawberry. My favorite."

"I know."

We ate in comfortable quiet for a while. A monarch investigated our blanket, landing briefly on the juice box in her hand before continuing on. She tracked its flight with wonder that belonged in museums.

"Look, those two are dancing together." She pointed at a pair of swallowtails spiraling upward. "Like they're celebrating."

"Maybe they are." I shifted to lean back on my elbows, watching her more than the butterflies. "Spring, flowers everywhere, perfect weather. Lots to celebrate."

She turned that radiant smile on me. "Like us. We're celebrating too."

"What are we celebrating?"

She thought about it, head tilted. "Being together. Being safe. Being here instead of worried about stupid Serpents." Her voice darkened on the last words.

"Hey." I sat up, catching her chin. "No Serpents today, remember? They don't exist here."

"Right. Sorry." She shook her head like clearing cobwebs. "It's just—"

"I know." I pulled her against my side, her head finding that perfect spot on my shoulder. "But today isn't about them. It's about butterflies and sunshine and seeing how many sandwiches my baby girl can eat."

"I've had two!" she protested, laughing.

"Rookie numbers." I reached for another sandwich. "I made eight."

We finished lunch slowly, her chattering about the different butterflies, making up names for them. The orange one became Fredrick. A blue became Princess Sparkles. The moth that dared approach got designated Mr. Grumpy Wings, which made me snort water up my nose.

When the sandwiches were demolished and the cookies discovered with appropriate squealing, I pulled out my secret weapon.

"Bubbles!" She snatched them from my hand, already scrambling to her feet. "I haven't blown bubbles in forever!"

"Time to fix that!"

She was off before I could say more, dress flying as she ran into the meadow. The wand emerged dripping, and her first breath produced a stream of iridescent spheres that caught the light like fairy magic. Her laugh echoed off the rocks as she chased them, spinning and reaching.

I leaned back on the blanket, content to watch her play. This was what she needed—not just the escape from stress, but permission to be young. To embrace the little girl who'd been buried under bills and fear and responsibility too heavy for her shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, she returned breathless and glowing, grass stains on her dress and pure joy on her face. Without asking, she crawled into my lap, back against my chest, head tucked under my chin.

"Thank you," she whispered. "For all of this. For knowing what I needed."

"Not done yet." I reached behind me for the final surprise. "Look what else Daddy brought."

The coloring book appeared like magic—thick, quality paper featuring intricate butterfly and flower designs. The kind made for adults but perfect for little girls who needed to create beauty. The pack of colored pencils beside it was the good kind, the ones that laid down smooth and bright.

She didn't speak. Couldn't, from the way her throat worked. Her fingers traced the cover reverently, then clutched both items to her chest like treasure.

"For here?" Her voice came out tiny, hopeful.

"For wherever my little girl wants to color." I pressed a kiss to her temple. "Here, home, the clubhouse. Wherever you need to make something beautiful."

The tears came then, silent but steady. Not sadness—I'd learned the difference. These were overwhelm tears, the kind that happened when emotion got too big for her body to contain.

"Hey, sweet girl. Talk to me."

"It's just—" She turned in my lap, facing me with wet cheeks and shining eyes. "You don't want to fix me or change me. You just . . . love me."

"Every part," I confirmed, thumbing away her tears. "The brave nurse who spots threats. The little girl who needs butterflies. The woman who takes my breath away. All of you, angel."

She kissed me then, soft and sweet with an edge of desperation. Tasted like strawberry jam and gratitude and something deeper I wasn't ready to name. When she pulled back, her eyes had that determined glint.

"I'm going to color you the most beautiful butterfly," she declared. "For your office. So you can look at it and remember today and know how much I love you."

"Can't wait to see it."

She scrambled off my lap, settling on her stomach with the book open before her. Feet kicked in the air, tongue poking out in concentration, she became absorbed in selecting the perfect first pencil.

I watched her work, this complex, beautiful woman who trusted me with her vulnerable spaces. The afternoon sun painted gold highlights in her hair. A butterfly landed on the blanket near her elbow, wings matching the one she was carefully shading purple.

Perfect moments were rare in our life. Between the club and the Serpents, between her job and our careful dynamics, peace was usually stolen in fragments. But here, surrounded by wildflowers and wonder, we had a whole perfect day.

An hour passed in the quiet way afternoon hours do when there's nowhere else to be. Kiara had shifted positions three times—stomach, side, back to stomach—but never stopped her careful work. Her voice provided soft narration I could have listened to forever.

"This wing needs purple but not regular purple. Sunset purple. Like when the sky can't decide if it wants to be pink or purple so it does both." She held up two pencils, debating. "Maybe layer them?"

I made an agreeable sound from where I lay beside her, head propped on one hand. Close enough to see her work, far enough not to crowd. The perfect observation position.

"And this flower—" She switched focus, selecting a golden pencil. "It's growing next to the butterfly because they're friends. The butterfly visits every day to tell the flower about all the places she's seen, and the flower shares its nectar." A pause for shading. "It's a very equal friendship."

My hand found her back, tracing lazy patterns through the thin dress. She hummed approval but didn't break concentration. This was little space at its purest—completely absorbed, narrating without self-consciousness, trusting me to keep watch while she created.